


Salt and Light

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alligators & Crocodiles, Electricity, First Kiss, Florida, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Hormones, Hurricanes & Typhoons, Kid John, Kid Sherlock, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Nightmares, Non-Linear Narrative, Ocean, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Teen Romance, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-22 03:18:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sherlock can picture John, damp and half-bare, tumbled in quartz-white sand so that it sticks to his chest and belly in patches. He pictures it often, in fact, and feels his skin go hot in a way that has nothing to do with sunburn.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Salt and Light

**Prelude**

Sherlock burns in the sun. His nose and cheeks blaze pink even when shaded by ridiculous hats, and freckles pepper every exposed surface.

John doesn’t seem to burn at all. While the skin is flaking white under Sherlock’s fingernails, John's bakes golden brown. By mid-July he's almost glowing; hair bleached corn-tassel blond and grin flashing white between chapped lips.

In his mind’s eye, Sherlock crumbles the colors of John’s skin into grains. Crushed coquina shell sand is his nearest match— lovely, coarse stuff that crunches with every stride. John is tawny yellows, while Sherlock is pale like Grayton quartz.

Sherlock can picture John, damp and half-bare, tumbled in quartz-white sand so that it sticks to his chest and belly in patches. He pictures it often, in fact, and feels his skin go hot in a way that has nothing to do with sunburn. 

 

 

 

**i. _  
_**

Ficus trees remind John of a picture book he found in the library, before he was old enough to read.

The illustrations were strange-- a boy on a picnic table-sized planet, a fox with rabbit's ears, a rose under a glass lid. His mom would never read it to him, said it was written in a language she didn't understand. She might have been lying. John never knew for sure. He lost the book and had to pay a fine, secreting quarters from his dad's car four at a time, for weeks. 

He remembers the pictures, though. One of the best illustrations depicted a tiny planet all overgrown with trees. Their roots were enormous, just like the web of ficus roots that cracked the pavement bordering the community pool.

One summer, the gate to the pool is barred by folding signs and orange caution tape, and men bring loud equipment to cut the trees down. John runs with the other kids to grab up sticks tacky with sap. They swing them at one another's legs and whack the ground with them, smack them together like swords.

"Why'd they cut down the trees?" someone asks.

One of the oldest kids looks snide and says, "My dad says whoever planted them there was an idiot. Everyone knows ficus roots will grow towards water. They cut them down because they were drinking up the whole pool."

John goes home still thinking about roots.

He crawls into bed and tucks his head under his pillow and pictures tick, brown fingers piercing the pool, draining it to a blue cement shell. He sleeps and dreams that there is something restless underneath the house, rustling under the floorboards until the whole foundation cracks. Roots split the floor and seize his bed, carry him away from Harry, away from his mom. John wants to see where he is going, to glimpse the insides of the tree, but he always wakes up just before the roots drink him down.

 

 

 

**ii.**

The exhibition room is crowded and noisy.

Sherlock is too short to see over the top of the displays and too small to push the older children out of the way, so he finds a dusty corner and sits on the floor.

Mycroft has _abandoned_ him here, in this room that smells of lemon-scented Lysol and sweat, and he considers what steps must be taken to procure another live cane toad. This time, he will secret it into his brother’s bed. His shirtfront might have proven insufficient for the transportation of live toads, but he will not repeat his mistake.

The sunlight shifts over wooden rafters. The din begins to fade as working hours come to an end. Children are plucked up by mothers and fathers in vans, in hybrids, in SUVs with sliding doors and insides that rattle with empty water bottles and soccer balls.

When the room is nearly empty, Sherlock stands up, brushes off his knees, and walks over to a large glass case in the center of the floor. Inside are a large battery and two long prongs of metal— Jacob’s Ladder.

He is tall enough to reach the buttons, even if he can’t quite see the yellow numbers printed next to each one. It doesn't take him long to discover that the buttons must be pressed in the proper combination to generate a spark.

The combinations are simple and therefore boring. Sherlock likes the display because it is _loud_ , and because Mycroft frowned when Sherlock asked what would happen if he were to touch the purple, arcing spark.

_**Snap.** Hum. _

_**Snap.** Hum._

“Which do you think would be more dangerous, Sherlock?” he had asked, supplying a question for an answer in the usual way. “Touching the spark, or touching the metal rods?”

Sherlock could guess which, but sensed that he ought to know _why_. “The metal rods.”

“The spark would burn you. The conductor which supplies the spark would kill you.”

 

Sherlock shivers.

The room is, at last, completely empty of chatter and the clatter of hands on levers and buttons.

 _ **Snap.** Hum._

 

 

 

**iii.**

They meet for the first time in a gas station off A1A.

The air smells of petrol and salt. Sherlock is inhaling deep, dangerous gulps when a towheaded stranger wheels up to the convenience store, panting and patched with sweat.

The boy steers his bike ( _hybrid, sturdy tires, patched once-- twice? primary form of transportation, then; paint- chipping, but well-tuned: his bike, not a hand-me-down, probably not a gift; only child?_ ) to the curb, slinging a leg over the side while the bike is still in motion and gliding, jogging to a stop. Something about the gesture is fascinating. Sherlock isn't sure why.

The rider strolls through the sliding doors, and Sherlock follows. He finds him in an aisle with his head tipped back, swallowing down an unpurchased Gatorade that will stain his tongue and lips Red Dye #40. Once Sherlock meanders into his line of sight, though, he swallows hard and stares. Sherlock can't blame him: people never pay proper attention to the little things, but Sherlock has a four-foot Florida Kingsnake draped around his bare upper body.

“That yours?” the boy gawps, watching the grey coils shift over bony shoulders.

Sherlock shrugs. “Borrowed it.”

"--Right.“ The stranger nods toward the arsenal of long-handled nets slung over Sherlock's shoulder. "I thought maybe you caught it.” 

“Not  _this_  one,” Sherlock explains, making a grab for the snake’s head when she nuzzles too deeply into tangled curls. “Kissimmee or St. Cloud?”

If possible, the boy gapes wider. “Say what?”

Sherlock doesn’t mean to smirk, but he does. Success has a new car smell. “Where you used to live, before moving down here. It’s one of the two, I just can’t figure out which.”

“Uh, hi. I'm John." John seems caught between a laugh and a frown. "Do I — know you from somewhere?” When he ruffles a hand through sweat-damp hair, it sticks up in spikes.

No, no.  _It’s your shoes_ , Sherlock explains, nudging a forked tongue away from his earlobe.  _The cut of your hair, the seeds and stones in your bike’s back tire tread_.

He stops short after speculating on the species of the shrubs that border John’s lawn, a little breathless and already regretful. John inhales and Sherlock braces for impact, feeling too loud, too tall.

“Wow. That's—  _amazing_ ,” John says. "What's your name?" He holds out a hand ( _Rough, small, calloused; bites his nails, works with tools, mows the family lawn_ ) and Sherlock takes it.

"Sherlock Holmes," he ventures.

John's grin is bright red, and it feels like being right.

 

 

 

**iv.**

“Shit, _shit_ , Sherlock, come on!”

John yanks his friend by the collar, pulling him away from the kitchen table. Sherlock cradles a microscope in both arms.

The glass in the sliding doors is bending visibly. The house is halfway down the gullet of darkness, and the roar outside has changed pitch in a way that freezes John’s lungs with animal fear.

Sherlock hears a freight train; Charybdis, swallowing the sky. He marvels at the strength of his instincts, his urge to burrow like an animal. John is herding him toward a hallway bathroom and Sherlock is torn between laughing, " _Listen to that, John, do you really think it matters?_ "-- and believing that they can hide like children in a crawlspace, and the storm will not notice them.

John pushes Sherlock ahead of him, protectiveness crowding his terror. This bathtub is empty, the other filled with emergency water, and there is just enough space for them to sit side by side. He drags the coverlet from his father's bed over one shoulder, and it fills half of the tiny room. He can't shut the door. He can't remember if that's important. John stands and stares at nothing, hearing the little alcove window rattle above their heads. _Small room, middle of the house, bathtub-- that's important, right? Window, but it's small-- mirror, so much glass, that's not good, maybe I should've, maybe we should..._

A whistle like a scream goes running through the streets, and the boys gasp at a clatter that might be rain, might the rooftop tearing free.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, or maybe he shouts. He's folded up against the back of the tub, one shoulder wedged under the faucet, one arm still crooked around his microscope. With his left hand he's reaching, straining. “ _John_.”

 

 

 

**v.**

This isn't John Watson's first hurricane. He was born in the wake of a Cat 3. This is just the first storm he's weathered alone.

It's nothing he can't manage. He knows how to prepare-- better than some people. Sometimes his house is empty, that's just how it is. He's almost seventeen. It'll be fine.

John lowers the aluminum shutters over the windows, giving a knowing nod to the neighbors across the street. The hinges shriek all the way, but he muscles past the stiffness and locks them in place. They droop over the front of the house almost comically, like heavy eyelids.

John bikes to the grocery store and fills a ten gallon jug with water and bikes back with much greater difficulty. He counts the canned foods stacked in his pantry and stares into the fridge for a long time. Eventually, he slams the door shut and goes shuffling through his laundry until he finds a slip of paper scrawled with seven numbers and a big _SH._ He dials before he can change his mind.

“ _Hello?_ ” There’s suspicion in the answering voice.

“Hey-- this is Sherlock?”

“-- Yes.”

“This is John Watson. You gave me your number, I don’t know if you even remem--”

Their voices jumble over one another’s. “ _Yes, John! Of course I--_ ” “-- you were busy with, uh, the police, I think --” “ _\--remember, I remember everything._ ”

A pause.

“And the skunk,” John adds.

They both giggle, and it staggers into laughter, loud and easy.

“What’d you do--” John pants.

“ _With my clothes? Burned them._ ”

“Shit.”

“ _Close enough._ ” More giggling.

“ _I-- ah, appreciated your help. I might not have thought to look at her text messages, too, if you hadn’t suggested it. The waitress, I mean. Not the skunk._ ”

John grins into the receiver. “Well, I have a sister who can't stop texting, so it wasn’t much of a leap-- nothing like how you found the guy just by looking at his shirt.”

There’s a _considering_ noise on the other end. “ _He might as well have been standing on the table, screaming and waving his arms around. Exotic pet traders aren't exactly sales assistants._ ”

He sounds frustrated, and John wants to gape, even if he can't understand what's frustrating him. As far as he's concerned, Sherlock is nothing short of a mindreader.

“Whatever, Holmes. That was amazing. You were right, even the _police_ listened to you.”

There's a flustered exhale, and John wishes to god that he could see Sherlock’s face. They’ve crossed paths all of three times, and John has already figured out that compliments to Sherlock’s intellect turn him pink. It's unexpected, in someone so self-assured.

"Yeah, so,” John clears his throat, “I called because I was wondering if you wanted to come over. I’m trying to get rid of all the meat in the fridge. The power grid is pretty shitty down here-- it'll probably go out after a few hours of rain, you know? So, if you wanted...” he trails off.

“ _Are you alone?_ ” John can’t tell if Sherlock sounds cautious or surprised.

“Yeah,” John answers, but doesn’t explain. He’d rather not.

“ _Okay. Yeah. I'll come._ ”

John blinks. “Great.”

“ _\--Actually,_ ” Sherlock wavers, “ _could I-- if you don’t mind-- is there any way I could stay over?_ ”

“At my place? You know Marta makes landfall tomorrow, right?” John isn't certain, but the weather seems like the kind of thing Sherlock might ignore, like pretty girls or astronomy.

“ _Yes, that's-- that's what I meant. But if--_ ”

“Yeah, you can,” John interrupts. He doesn’t ask why. There’s no one around to care besides John, and John doesn’t care. “Of course you can.”

 

 

 

**vi.**

John's hand rests on Sherlock’s bare knee. He thinks he can hear the sound of breaking glass.

They are crushed hipbone to hipbone in the bathtub, legs bent double. The air beneath the coverlet is humid with their breath.

John stares into the dimness as disasters play across his mind’s eye. If the mirror shatters, the coverlet will shield them, the roof falls in-- well, they'll feel it. His muscles are tensed to push Sherlock down against the bottom of the tub, to cover Sherlock’s body with his own. He does not dwell the possibility of their corpses pinned under wreckage, but he does think about Sherlock, alive, huddled beneath John’s muscle and bone. He swallows, and in his own ears the sound is louder than the rain.

Sherlock feels the hurricane like a building chorus that never crescendos. His senses are scratched raw. To keep the screams at bay, he lashes his awareness to the press of John’s knees and shins against his, to the blanket of his palm and fingers. He can't see John’s hand on his knee, he can only know by feeling. Sherlock hasn't earned this closeness. He has only known John Watson for three weeks. Danger must be the catalyst: fear and the survival instinct have succeeded where social rituals so often fail. 

He wonders if John will remove it abruptly, startled by a crash-- or awkwardly, if the storm dwindles to quiet. He wonders if John will touch him more easily, now-- casual touches, shoulder-clasps, as if they have been friends for years and not weeks. But it is a mistake to theorize ahead of data.

 

 

 

**vii.**

Greenish light filters through the alcove window. John pushes the coverlet down.

Sherlock is still dozing, and John shakes him by the shoulder. They stand up, wobbling on sleeping legs, and walk into the kitchen.

Nothing is broken. The backyard is covered with debris-- coconuts rolled from the neighbor's tree, palm branches and pine branches and oak branches, a lawn chair that John has never seen before-- but the sliding glass door has not shattered, and the covered windows are secure. They test the front door. It sticks mightily with moisture, but succumbs to their combined weight.

Outside, everything is tinged yellow-green, like a filter has been placed over the sun. The roar of wind is like the sound of distant traffic.

The laurel oak in John's front yard has fallen on top of the mailbox, smashing it. The boys walk around the tree on the root-side, where the earth is black and gaping. There are layers of sand in the street, blown into waves with perfect edges. Sherlock and John walk down the middle of the road, side by side. They spot one neighbor trying to back his car out from under another fallen tree. Most people stay indoors. They know this isn't the end, it's only the eye. John and Sherlock know, too, but they turn down the asphalt lake path and continue their walk.

Every ficus tree has toppled. Their impressive roots spread wide but shallowly. None of the pines, save a lighting-stuck tree, snapped at the middle, have been felled. Their slim trunks stand straighter and sturdier than telephone poles, shedding branches without capsizing.

John lets out a whistle at the largest casualty. Clumps of dirt stick to a mat of thigh-thick roots, jutting at least six feet higher than his head. The grey limbs, once deliciously climbable, have become a sideways jungle gym. Sherlock gets the itch and hauls his lanky body up over the lowermost branches to walk along a suspended limb. He doesn't hold his arms out for balance, but John can see determination in the purse of his lips.

"It could roll, Sherlock," he cautions. Sherlock grunts. When he wobbles, John sticks out a hand, and Sherlock grasps it, eyes on his feet. Sherlock's palms are smooth, but his fingers are calloused. John can feel the rough skin against his knuckles.

"Their fruit is edible."

"What?" John glances up.

"Ficus trees. They're a kind of fig. It's not especially palatable."

"I'm guessing you learned that from experience." John shakes his head, imagining Sherlock as a child. It isn't difficult.

"I learned that the Alocasia genus is poisonous from experience," Sherlock says, solemn.

" _Echh._ "

"I was twelve."

 "Are you serious?" John half turns, gaping up at him.

"I shouldn't say poisonous, exactly. They're full of raphids."

"I'm still stuck on you putting strange plants in your mouth at twelve years old. As in less than five years ago."

Sherlock pinches his thumb in retaliation. "I needed the leaf in a hurry, and Alocasia stems are very thick. Aren't you going to ask me what raphids are?"

They are nearing the end of Sherlock's branch. "I suspect you're going to tell me whether or not I ask."

"They are calcium oxalate in crystalline form."

"Uh huh."

"Like millions of tiny needles."

John must look suitably horrified, because Sherlock grins. He jumps down from the branch. John lets go of his hand.

"You _needed the leaf in a hurry_ ," he echoes, turning back to the path. Sherlock sticks close.

John watches their feet-- there is a lot of debris-- and observes their strides fall into synchronicity, despite Sherlock's longer legs.

"We're walking outside in the eye of a hurricane, John," Sherlock states, as if he is explaining.

"So?" John asks, already knowing.

"It could catch us. A flash flood could wipe us away."

A shiver runs up John's spine. Sherlock is staring intently at the side of his face. When he risks a glance, John catches him smirking. It's a good look. Not annoying, like ought to be. John feel like a conspirator.

The wind picks up before they've reached the house, and they sprint the final stretch. Their sneakers pound the wet asphalt, screeching when they skid in patches of sand. They are in no immediate danger, but John pushes harder and harder against the wind, until he must be running faster than he's ever run in his life-- faster than soccer practice, faster than rubber track races sidelined with cute girls. It's hard to breathe with laughter coughing in his chest, but Sherlock is laughing, too. He's quicker, with those damn long legs, but John sticks to his heels right up to the driveway.

The door slams behind them, and they fall apart into stupid, gasping laughs.

Once they can breathe, they share a jug of water, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Sherlock's mouth glistens when he lowers the jug, and John notices the fullness of his lower lip. It looks soft. Like a girl's.

"What are you thinking about?"

John blinks, feeling doubly warm with running and embarrassment. "Nothing."

He thinks Sherlock is staring, but it’s dark and he doesn't want to know for sure, so he stands, offering his hand. Sherlock takes it.

The storm lolls around the house, working itself from a moan to a howl. It's not as frightening, this time. They drag pillows into the tub and tuck the coverlet to the side, settling a flashlight between them that casts a beam straight upward through the darkness.

"So," John says to the ceiling, "tell me how you ended up with that king snake."

"Lucy?"

"Yeah."

Sherlock leans close, shoulder pressing shoulder. "It's a long story."

"Perfect."

 

 

 

**viii.**

John wakes to the sound of thunder and rolls over to check the time. The digital clock blinks red zeroes.

He huffs and flops onto his back, staring at the wooden slats of the window blinds until his eyes adjust to the grey light. It's raining, and John is warm. His limbs feel saturated and heavy, as if the rain has soaked into his skin. It's wonderful.

He drowses, wakeful on a sandbar lapped by sleep. The pleasant heaviness trickles down his chest, down his thighs, like water down the windowpane. John tests the soft skin of his stomach with his fingertips, raising goosebumps, then lets his hand drift between his legs. He cups his fingers, barely rubbing, and feels the thud of his own pulse, the way his flesh twitches and swells. It would be easy to fall asleep like this, half-agitated, slip into sultry, private dreams.

Instead, John rolls onto his belly. He squirms against the sheets, knees rucking up cotton, as his mind's eye sifts through memories and fantasies for something sweet. A body under his body. Bare skin, winding arms. Something, anything, to push against, push into. _Yes._ He drags a pillow down between his thighs, and rocks, slowly. He thinks about porcelain, a narrow, cramped space and humid air. A body under his that's familiar, that's glad to be there.

It's okay. He's half-asleep. It doesn't matter.

Soft curls, sticking between his fingers. Sweat and mess. A voice that changes its timbre, turns deep and rough, like his. Limbs tangled in a hiding place.

Muscles bunch in his stomach and thighs and John grunts, clinging to the mattress. _Oh._ It's good, so good that he drifts in it, floats, and almost falls asleep with his legs doubled under him.

The pillow between his legs is wet, soaked through his briefs. John swears, softly. He strips and tosses the pillow off the bed, wraps himself in the sheet and burrows down. He wills himself to sleep.

If he's dreaming, it doesn't matter.


End file.
